


Brokedown

by OnYourMark



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnYourMark/pseuds/OnYourMark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal has hit his breaking point; telling Peter about the treasure might get him thrown back in prison but, between the arrow through his arm and the constant exhaustion, he can't be bothered to care anymore. (An AU where van Horn's aim was a little better and Neal confesses.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brokedown

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: this is essentially a story about depression. It spends considerable time detailing some of the effects of a non-clinical depressive episode. If this is likely to trouble or trigger you, you should probably avoid reading it.

Neal wasn't sure when the breaking point hit, only that it had.

It might have been when the arrow blew through his arm like he wasn't even there. Or when he saw Jones, his savior in a flak vest, come barreling down the hallway in time to stop van Horne from releasing the killshot.

Maybe when they pushed morphine into him for the pain. Or when he woke up in the hospital, his left arm a dull ache. It was definite by then, anyway; he couldn't even feel gratitude it hadn't been his painting arm.

None of it had anything to do with the treasure, so he favored the idea that the arrow had hit something inside him, had broken his skin and everything else had followed.

"Hey," Peter said, hanging up his phone and coming into Neal's line of vision. Neal looked up at him, feeling numb, wondering if it was the drugs. "Good news is, they saved your arm."

Neal nodded. He didn't really care what the bad news was.

"Bad news is, you're gonna be in a sling for a while," Peter continued. "Van Horn really nailed you. We're lucky you didn't bleed out."

"Yeah, lucky," Neal echoed. He could feel the wound in his arm, a bassbeat pulse, but it wasn't the only thing. His bones seemed heavy, and pain pooled on his skin, on his arms and where the hospital sheet rested on his chest, his stomach. It hurt everywhere, but nowhere enough to make him really concerned.

"You okay in there?" Peter asked. He was smiling, but the smile had turned hesitant, worried. He bent over to be on eye level with Neal, studying him.

Neal nodded vaguely, closing his eyes.

\---

The next time he woke the world was still soft and strange. He felt the same ache in his bones and skin, and a thickness in his head that didn't seem to come from drugs. Jones was there, playing games on his phone. Neal watched him for a while, dully, until Jones looked up.

"Hey!" he said, grinning. "How you feeling?"

"Not so good," Neal rasped.

"Yeah, I bet. Listen, Peter wanted me to tell you we got van Horn, Jimmy's safe, and Elizabeth's bringing you a care package," Jones said.

"Good," Neal managed, pushing himself up on his good arm. He looked down at his left arm, at the clean white bandage wrapped around it. It didn't even feel like his. "Am I on painkillers?"

Jones shook his head, phone to his ear. "Nothing heavy. Why?"

"Just wondering," Neal answered.

"Peter, hey," Jones said into the phone. "Neal's up. Yeah. No. Seems that way." He looked up at Neal and held out the phone. Neal shook his head. "Think maybe he's tired. Yeah, okay. Sure."

He hung up. "You need anything? I should go let someone know you're awake."

"I'm fine," Neal said, dropping back down to the bed. "Thanks."

Jones nodded. "Sorry I'm about to call the nurses on you," he said, and left.

Neal sat quietly through the examination that followed, answering questions when asked, not volunteering much. They made him drink a glass of water, and they brought him some food; he picked at it until he felt tired again, then went back to sleep with the food still sitting on the tray over his bed.

\---

The third time he woke, new food was there; a breakfast platter instead of a dinner tray. Peter was back, and he had that "I suspect something" look. Neal didn't bother to worry about it.

"Hungry?" Peter asked, tipping his head at the food.

"Not really," Neal said.

"You doing all right?" Peter asked.

"Sure." Neal sat up, wincing. The rasp of the sheets on his skin made the ache worse. They watched each other for a few seconds.

"You're quiet," Peter said, more observational than accusatory.

"Must be the painkillers," Neal murmured.

"They took you off IV painkillers last night," Peter told him. "You're not on anything right now. In pain?"

Yes; his arm burned and his bones ached and his skin rasped painfully. But it was all...distant. Unimportant.

"Not much," Neal said. He looked down at his hands, resting loose in his lap.

It didn't matter. Nothing seemed to matter. Prison was inevitable, solitude almost desirable if only because if he admitted how much he didn't want to be alone, he'd shut down completely. He was probably close now. He was just tired. Tired of everything.

"There's a storage room in a warehouse off Gansevoort and Tenth," he said. Peter looked startled. "77850. Unit A."

Peter reached out and put a hand on Neal's forehead. Neal lay, passive, until he took it off again.

"You're not delirious," Peter said.

"No."

"Neal, what am I going to find in the storage room?"

Neal watched him, unblinking, too tired to explain. Peter would go away and find the treasure and maybe then he'd have to explain, but maybe they'd just send him away to Riker's, then back to supermax, and he could sleep day by day in his cell.

Finally Peter sat back, then stood up. He put his hands on his hips. "Are you going to be here when I get back?"

Neal, silently, offered his wrist to be cuffed. Peter brushed it aside.

"I'll be back in an hour," he said. "I'm putting you on active monitor. If you cut the tracker or leave this room, the Marshals will immediately scramble the NYPD."

Neal nodded.

"Neal, tell me what's going on," Peter pleaded.

"You'll need to pick the lock," Neal told him.

\---

He fell asleep after Peter left. Whatever happened, at least it was done now.

When he woke again, Peter and Diana were both in the room, talking in low tones far from the bed. Neal pushed himself up -- his arm twitched -- and both their heads shot up. It would have been funny, he supposed, if he cared.

Peter came over and pulled up a chair, sitting down. Diana hovered behind him, looking angry and worried.

"Diana's here as a witness, if we need one," Peter said. "You're not under arrest yet. If you answer these questions it's voluntary. Or I can arrest you and we can record them."

Neal nodded.

"I need verbal agreement," Peter said tiredly.

"I understand," Neal said.

"Okay. Is that all the treasure from the U-boat?"

"Yes."

"Did you steal it, Neal?" Peter asked, with an odd hopeful tilt to his voice.

"No."

"Do you know who did?"

"Mozzie," Neal answered. Mozzie would hate him forever, but if he was going to prison that hardly mattered. Or even if he wasn't.

"Did you two plan it ahead of time?"

"No."

"So you didn't know he was going to steal the treasure?"

"No," Neal repeated.

"But you knew where to find it."

"Mozzie told me, after."

Peter rubbed his face, glanced up at Diana, turned back to Neal. "Help me understand this. Tell me what happened."

Neal shrugged. "Mozzie took it. He told me about it. We were going to sell it and run. We're not, now, obviously," he added.

"Did Mozzie know you were going to tell me?" Peter asked.

"No."

"He's gonna be pissed," Peter observed. "If we ever find him."

"Yeah, probably," Neal agreed.

Peter rubbed his lips with his thumb, thoughtfully. "So the only chargable offense for you is obstruction of justice," he said, looking at Diana, who nodded agreement. "I can offer you immunity in exchange for the tip. I don't know what we can do for Mozzie. Obstruction of justice, destruction of property, receiving stolen property, conspiracy....are his fingerprints on anything?"

"Maybe," Neal said. "I don't know. Probably not. You know Mozzie."

"Yes, I think I do," Peter drawled. "Are you sure you want to give him up like this, Neal? You're not usually one to throw someone under the bus."

"Doesn't matter," Neal said quietly.

"Because Mozzie'll go off the grid?" Diana asked.

"Just doesn't, that's all," Neal repeated. Diana and Peter exchanged a look.

"I've called in agents to process the treasure and put it into evidence," Peter said. "It'll be repatriated, if it's in the registry. It'll be front page news tomorrow, Neal."

"I know," Neal said.

"You don't want to change your story?"

"No."

"Neal, are you okay?" Diana asked. Neal glanced at her, then looked down and shrugged. When he looked sidelong at Peter, his face was troubled.

"I'm going to get some immunity paperwork set up," Peter said. "And I'm going to call a neurological and a psychiatric consult in here for you."

"Yeah. I guess telling the truth looks pretty crazy, coming from me," Neal agreed.

"Flat affect, apathy, excessive sleep," Diana ticked off points on her fingers. "Loss of appetite, indifference to pain. I miss anything, Neal?"

Neal stared at her for a while, then shifted a little. His arm burned, but the pain cleared his head.

"I can tell you where to find Moz," he said. "He'll be at Green. Address is 299 West 12th, the boarded-over door in the basement. The boards swing out."

"I'll go," Peter said, grasping Diana's arm lightly when she moved to leave. He gave Neal a warning look as he left.

Neal rolled over, onto his side, back to Diana. After a while, she cleared her throat.

"Christy gets depressed sometimes," she said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Neal answered.

"It goes away," she offered.

"That's good."

"Neal, you know I'm not good at this," she continued. "I'm just trying to help."

"I'm tired," he said. "I'd like to sleep. Is the interrogation over?"

Diana was silent. Finally, she said, "Yes. If you want to talk, though, I'll be here for a little while."

"Okay," Neal agreed. When she spoke again -- _Peter's probably going to offer Mozzie a deal_ \-- he pretended to be asleep.

\---

It was late, very late at night, when he woke again. It had to be late, because Diana was gone, and Peter wasn't there, but Mozzie was.

"What did you do?" Mozzie asked, when he saw Neal's eyes were open. Neal closed them again. "Don't ignore me, Neal. That crap might work with the Suits but it's not going to fly with me. You told them about the treasure?"

"Yes," Neal said, without opening his eyes.

"Why? Did the Man finally break you? Did they push some SP-117? Neal, _answer me_ ," Mozzie snapped. Neal opened his eyes.

"Nobody did anything to me," he said. "I'm just tired."

Mozzie was furious. Neal had never been on the direct receiving line of Mozzie's anger, but he'd seen others suffer his wrath. Mozzie was scary when he was mad. So, maybe Mozzie would kill him or something. That would be okay.

"The Suit found Green," Mozzie continued.

"I told him," Neal said.

"Yeah, I gathered that, Einstein. What the hell, honestly? Did I somehow screw you and forget about it?"

"No. You didn't deserve it," Neal said.

"Then why, Neal?"

Neal fell silent. Just watched him. Finally Mozzie ran a hand over his bald head, sighed and sat down.

"He offered me a deal," he said. "Twenty-four hours to decide. I can pay the fine for the warehouse damage and take immunity for the tip. Or I can go underground and leave the city."

Not really mentioning the option to be arrested, but then Neal imagined that was why Peter had given him a timeframe. Turn himself in as a source, or run. That was pretty decent of Peter.

"I don't want to leave New York. I like New York," Mozzie said.

"Me too," Neal agreed. "I never wanted to leave New York."

The shot landed square. The rage in Mozzie's eyes died away.

"Is that why you did this?" he asked. "You could have warned me, Neal. Let me take my cut before you handed it over to the Feds."

"Sorry," Neal said.

"Yeah, that sounds like you mean it," Mozzie observed. "What do I do, Neal?"

"Up to you," Neal said, and yawned. "I made my decision. Don't have to make any more now."

"Yeah, you made a decision all right," Mozzie said. Neal closed his eyes. "Thanks for nothing, Neal."

"Sorry," Neal mumbled again, but if Mozzie said anything else, Neal was already asleep again.

\---

Peter came back the next morning, while a doctor was giving Neal a neurological exam, asking him to push against her hands, follow her finger with his eyes, stand still with his eyes closed. The neurologist looked at Peter, then back at Neal, and made a notation on her clipboard.

"Neurologically, you're fine," she said to Neal. "If anything changes, tell a nurse, okay?"

"Sure," Neal said. "Thank you."

"My pleasure, Mr. Caffrey," she said, and nodded to Peter on her way out. Neal sat back down on the edge of the bed, hands between his knees.

"How are you?" Peter asked.

"Neurologically competent," Neal replied.

"Gold star for you," Peter told him. "Found Mozzie."

"I know."

Peter looked surprised.

"He showed up here last night," Neal said.

"Bet that was a fun conversation."

"Could've been worse."

"Yeah, you still have all your limbs," Peter observed. "He didn't take it well."

"He never would have," Neal said, because Peter seemed to expect a reply.

"So everything's inevitable, huh?"

Neal shrugged. "It's done."

"I think if that were true, you wouldn't still be freaking everyone out with your crazy dead eyes," Peter said. Neal could tell he was angling for a laugh. When he didn't laugh, Peter continued. "Neal, if the psychiatric consult finds something severe, you could go back to prison."

"That's okay," Neal said.

"It's really not," Peter replied. "The FBI's not going to pay for treatment for a sullen asshole who was just involved in an enormous felony. They'll ship you to Supermax and you won't get what you need there. So I am asking you, I am begging you, if only for an hour, to fake it."

"Why?" Neal asked.

"Because I don't want to see you back in prison after I worked all night to keep your ass out? Because I'm honestly worried about you? Neal, this isn't you. You have to see that."

"Being me didn't work very well," Neal reminded him gently.

"Jesus Ch..." Peter stopped himself, and Neal could see him visibly getting his anger under control, visibly reciting to himself some instructions that he'd been given. Diana, or maybe Elizabeth.

"You're the one who called the consult," Neal pointed out.

"Out of legal necessity. Plus Diana made me," Peter said. "Look, I'm not asking you to smile and play nice. I get that you're not happy, and you're probably not happy with me. How not happy are you?"

Neal watched him.

"Are you suicidal?" Peter finally asked. "If you are, please tell me now and not the doctor later."

"I think you have to care to be suicidal," Neal said warily.

"Okay. Great. Hell, Neal, you can cause trouble just by not doing anything," Peter said, resting his hands on his hips, bowing his head. "We will help you, okay, we'll get you out of this, I promise. But you have to keep yourself out of prison, Neal."

Neal nodded. "Okay."

Peter blinked. "Okay?"

"If that's what you want."

"It is," Peter said. "It's what I want."

"I'll do that," Neal said.

\---

He didn't make any particular effort with the psychiatrist they sent to him. He'd told Peter he would, but he was a liar, that was what he did, lied to people, and it had made Peter go away so he could sleep some more.

"Mr. Caffrey, I'm Dr. Farrenen," the psychiatrist said, offering his hand. Neal shook it, wordlessly. "I've spoken to Special Agent Burke about your situation, so I want to assure you that whatever you say here is protected by confidentiality laws."

"Thank you," Neal said.

"Okay, I just have some basic questions. Any history of mental illness in your family?"

"Not that I'm aware," Neal said. _My father was shithouse-rat crazy and got killed for it, does that count?_

"Any personal history? History of depression, any manic episodes?"

"No."

"I'm told you've spent some time in prison. How did you cope with that?"

"Quietly," Neal said.

There were plenty of questions after that, about how he felt and how he'd been hurt, what he planned to do when he got out of the hospital ("Sleep a lot") and how his relationship was with Agent Burke ("At this point I think you'd have to ask him"). It went on and on until Neal was exhausted, holding onto the edge of the bed to keep from toppling off it.

"Mr. Caffrey," Dr. Farrenen said finally, setting his notepad aside. "I think you've been under a lot of stress. Agent Burke's very concerned. I think you're exhausted, and this has been pretty traumatic for you. Like a broken limb -- the break is clean, but it still needs time to heal. I don't think you're in danger of harming yourself, but I do think you're going to let yourself be harmed if you're not careful. Do you have someone you can stay with when you leave the hospital?"

"I have a home," Neal said, confused. "I rent an apartment."

"Yes, I'm aware, but I'm asking if there's someone who can keep an eye on you for a while."

Neal thought about it. "No. Probably not."

"Not Agent Burke?"

Neal shrugged.

"Have you asked him if he would?"

"No."

"Can we do that now? Is that okay?"

Neal glanced at the door. "Sure."

Dr. Farrenen got up and went to the door, leaning out into the hallway. After a moment, Peter came in, face set in concerned lines.

"Neal needs to ask you something," Dr. Farrenen said.

A little spark of rebellion crackled, but it died quickly enough. It was humiliating, being made to ask Peter for help like a child, but after all, prison was humiliating too. And the worst that would happen was that Peter would say no.

"Can I stay with you?" Neal asked.

"What?" Peter said, looking suddenly confused.

"I need to stay with someone when I get out of here, apparently," Neal explained. "Can I stay with you?"

"That's it?" Peter said, glancing at Farrenen. "Yeah, of course. Jeez, raise the drama level there," he added, still looking at Farrenen. Neal actually felt the urge to smile.

"Then I think we're okay here," Farrenen said. "Neal can fill you in. I'd like to check in with you before you leave, Neal, okay?"

Neal nodded and Farrenen, mercifully, left.

"What the hell was that about?" Peter asked, still looking mildly confused.

"He said someone should keep an eye on me," Neal said. "I told him I didn't think there was anyone who'd bother."

"Why would you say that?"

"Well, it's a pain in the ass," Neal said. "And Mozzie's too pissed at me. Or possibly on the run by now."

"Look, is this...are you angling for something?" Peter asked. "Because if so, I give. Does it fix this if I tell you we care about you? I'm pretty incompetent at nurturing, but I can do that. I kind of assumed you'd figured that out already, not being a total idiot."

Neal ducked his head, not sure how to answer.

"Thank you for not getting thrown back in prison," Peter said finally. "I'm sure that'll make El happy too. She's looking forward to seeing you awake."

He gestured at the table next to the bed; Neal craned his neck around and saw a basket of food there. There was a Rubik's Cube on top.

"She thought you'd get bored," Peter said. "She's been to see you twice. You didn't wake up."

"I'm sorry," Neal said.

"Don't worry about it. So, if you eat the meals they bring you, you can get out of here tomorrow," Peter said. "Otherwise they're going to hook you up to an IV and you'll be stuck here. I'm guessing, given the choice, you'd rather not spend the rest of your days in therapy with Farrenen. So eat your damn food, okay Neal?"

Neal nodded. That wouldn't be difficult; it wasn't like he could taste anything.

Peter reached out and ruffled his hair, startling him. It hurt a little.

"We'll be back tomorrow morning to get you. Stay out of trouble in the meantime," Peter ordered.

"Okay."

Peter was at the door before he stopped again and turned around. Neal watched him.

"Listen, I know you didn't do this for me," he said. "But I'm pleased you told us, Neal. It was the right thing to do. When you're better, you'll see that."

"It doesn't matter," Neal told him.

"I hope you don't mean that," Peter said, looking sad. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sure."

\---

They actually did bring him home. He'd half-thought they might just dump him at June's.

Elizabeth fussed over him, but it felt more normal than Peter's worried looks and confused silence -- like she was treating his arm, while Peter was fretting over his soul or something. He fell asleep in the car, and then once they got home she made him eat, gave him aspirin for his arm, and told him to sit on the couch and find a movie to watch. He turned on the television, but that was as far as he got before curling up, legs drawn to his chest, feet on the couch cushions, and falling asleep with his head on his knees. When Peter woke him for dinner, the TV was tuned to ESPN.

"Mozzie took the deal," Peter said over dinner, while Neal ate mindlessly. "June's paying the warehouse damages. She says she'll take it out of both your hides later," he added with a grin. Neal nodded over his food. "I'm taking some time off, so I'll be around during the day."

"The FBI's going to give him whatever he wants after finding the treasure," Elizabeth said to Neal, almost conspiratorial -- and also as if Neal didn't really have anything to do with it, like having helped hide it in the first place. "It's all over the news, that the FBI found this huge cache of Nazi loot."

"Fortunately they're keeping our names out of it," Peter added. "They have people handling the official press."

"That's good," Neal said. Then, in an effort to seem less like the sullen asshole Peter had labeled him, "Keeps our undercover aliases intact."

Peter looked pleased. "Yeah. So things are working out."

After dinner, Elizabeth took him upstairs and put the toilet lid down, guiding him to sit on it before easing his arm out of the sling and changing his bandage.

"Peter's a fumble-fingers about bandages," she said. "How's that feel?"

"Fine," Neal told her.

"Actual fine, or can't be bothered fine?" she asked shrewdly. Neal flexed his arm.

"Actual fine," he said.

"Good. Are you tired?"

"Yes."

"Peter said you were sleeping a lot. Come on, the guest room is all ready for you," she told him, leading him down the hall. Inside the guest room, she flicked on the lights and gestured to the bed. It was made up neatly, and there was a small stuffed toy sitting on the pillow.

"Just a silly thing," she said, as Neal drifted over to examine it. "I thought you'd think it was funny."

Neal picked it up, turning it over in his hands. It took him a second to place it; it was a green plush apple, with a pink felt mask sewn onto the front.

" _Prêtre Marié_ ," he said. "Magritte."

"I knew you'd get it," she replied.

"I painted a Magritte once," Neal said thoughtfully, putting the apple down on the nightstand. "He seems like he would have been a nice guy to know."

"I'm sure he'd find you fascinating," Elizabeth told him.

"Who knows," Neal murmured. He spread a hand over the pillow on the bed.

"I'll let you get some sleep," she said, but she didn't leave; instead she came over to the bed and hugged him, leaning up to kiss his forehead. "Feel better, Neal."

"Thank you," he said, and when she was gone he took off the shirt and jeans they'd brought him to come home in, Peter's shirt and jeans (broad at the shoulder, a little too big at the waist, too long in the leg) and found a set of new pajamas under the pillow. Elizabeth must have had quite the retail morning.

He crawled into bed, exhausted by dinner and the gift and Elizabeth's hug, and fell asleep to the sound of their voices coming up through the floorboards.

\---

It felt like he slept forever. Every once in a while one of them would wake him, drag him downstairs, and put food in front of him; at least twice Peter shoved him into the bathroom and told him to shower, and Elizabeth changed his bandage a couple of times. At some point he found himself standing in the backyard, watching Satchmo nose around the bushes; when he came back inside, Peter thanked him and gave Satchmo a treat, Neal a muffin. Neal put it down absently on the kitchen island and went back to the couch to sleep.

It occurred to him, slowly, that he wasn't going back to prison. Peter had told him as much, but it hadn't really sunk in. He'd told the truth; the weight of the treasure was off his back, and it would never be his problem again. He slept less, after that, and the ache began to dissipate from his bones. He sometimes sat at the dining-room table and watched Peter cooking in the kitchen, or sat next to Elizabeth while she read style magazines on the couch. Peter was truly bad at nurturing. Neal would catch him watching him, sometimes, or trying awkwardly to talk to him. Elizabeth was better; she hugged him and left him alone.

His skin stopped hurting. Slowly, he started tasting food again, though never very much. He slipped most of his meals to Satchmo on the sly. When he did sleep, he felt like he was sleeping away his whole past. All the tension and the running, three plus years in prison, Kate's death, Adler's death, all of it.

He came downstairs one morning, clean and with dripping hair, to find Peter buried in files, occasionally tapping away on his laptop.

"I want a haircut," Neal announced, before he'd even thought about it. Peter looked up, mildly.

"A haircut?" he asked.

"It's too long," Neal said, running a hand over his scalp, catching hair between his fingers. Peter frowned.

"Okay," he said slowly.

"You do it," Neal told him.

"I'm...I've never, um, done that," Peter said slowly.

"It's not hard. I want it really short," Neal answered.

Peter sat back and seemed to be considering whether or not to bow to his admittedly probably weird request. Finally, he closed the laptop.

"I have a beard trimmer," he offered.

"From the ill-advised mustache?" Neal asked.

Peter gave him a sudden warm grin. "Yeah. I'll go find it. Worst thing happens is we end up shaving your head and Elizabeth makes fun of us."

Neal sat on the edge of the bathtub, eyes closed, a towel over his shoulders, and lost himself in the buzz of the trimmer; he head Peter grunt a couple of times, perplexed, but when Peter finally dusted off his head with a hand and said, "Okay, that's as good as it gets," he opened his eyes and looked in the mirror.

His hair was cut close, definitely short enough, not quite a buzz; it lay flat against his head, making him look like some kind of Roman emperor. Peter was watching him in the mirror, expectant.

"That's good," Neal said.

"Is this..." Peter began, looking at Neal's reflection rather than at Neal. "Do you even know why...?"

"What day is it?" Neal asked.

"Thursday. The eighteenth. You were shot on the third," Peter said.

Neal digested this. "It's over, isn't it?"

Peter rested a hand on the crown of his head, thumb rubbing his temple gently. "Yeah, it's over."

Something seemed to snap in Neal's spine, rumbling through his chest. It was over -- done -- Kate avenged, the treasure safe, and Neal was still standing. Feeling came rushing back and with it pain and hunger; his arm was screaming. He curled both arms around his stomach and bent over, shuddering. Peter was out of the bathtub and kneeling in front of him in a flash, hands on his face, tipping it up (it hurt, it _hurt_ ) to look in his eyes.

"It's over, Neal," he said again, and Neal lurched forward, face pressed to Peter's shoulder. Peter curled a hand around his neck, holding him there. "You're safe, it's okay."

Neal was vaguely cognizant that he was shaking, and he could feel the tension pouring off Peter. He was hungry, starving, and his arm hurt _so much_.

With a deep inhale, he managed to get control back; he let it out slowly and eased away from Peter, swiping his hand through his shorn hair.

"I'm really really hungry," he said, and Peter laughed and hugged him, still kneeling, before letting him go.

"Okay," Peter said, still smiling. "You're all right? You're okay?"

"My arm..." Neal tried not to whine, but he didn't even know the last time he'd taken anything. Peter got to his feet and took a prescription bottle off the counter, shaking out a white oblong pill.

"Should help," he said, pouring out a glass of water. Neal took the pill and gulped the water gratefully. "Want me to take a look?" Peter asked, nodding at his arm.

"No, I want food," Neal insisted. Peter pushed the towel off Neal's shoulders and jerked his head at the door, following him down the stairs. Neal dove into the fridge as soon as he got to the kitchen, delighted to find a half-full carton of fried rice. He dumped it into a bowl and put it in the microwave, impatiently waiting for it to heat.

"It's not going anywhere," Peter said, while Neal watched it rotate in the microwave. Neal ignored him and took it out, grabbing a fork and settling in at the kitchen island.

"You want some?" he offered.

"No, I had breakfast," Peter said, looking amused. Neal secured the bowl against his chest with his sling, eating hurriedly. It tasted amazing. When he was done, he set the bowl down and looked up at Peter, who hadn't moved from the other side of the island.

"How's Mozzie?" Neal asked. It suddenly occurred to him he had no idea what had happened.

"Pissed off," Peter said. "But he'll live. Worried about you. Do you remember him visiting?"

"No," Neal answered. "He came here?"

"Yeah, couple of days ago. Not one of your good days, relatively speaking. I think..." Peter's mouth twisted, the way it did when he was working something out. "I think he blames himself for putting that pressure on you. I think he's pissed at himself, mostly."

"I'm sure losing half a billion dollars in rare art was in there somewhere," Neal said.

"You're more important to him," Peter said. "He'd like to know you're doing better. He won't answer when I call," he added ruefully.

"I'll call him," Neal promised. He felt almost lightheaded; tired, in pain, but alert for the first time in ages, the world sharp and unmuffled. He was about to try standing up, which he felt he could pretty much manage, when the front door slammed.

"Sweetie?" Elizabeth's voice in the foyer. "I'm back from the client meeti -- oh my God, what did you do to him?" she asked, rounding the corner and catching sight of Neal. She turned on Peter, who held up his hands defensively.

"He asked!" he said. Elizabeth turned back to Neal. He gave her a shrug and a wide grin. She took in the short hair, the nearly-empty bowl of fried rice, and the smile, and then came around to give him a hug. Neal leaned into it, good arm wrapping around her waist.

"I feel better," he said against her ear.

"So I see," she said, letting go. "What brought this on?"

Neal glanced at Peter, then turned back to her. "It's over," he said.

Elizabeth nodded gravely.

"And I'm still here," Neal said. Another wave of lightheadedness hit him. "And...still kind of tired," he added.

"Yeah, it's a lot of excitement for one morning, a haircut and breakfast," she said, smiling. "Couch or bed?"

"Couch," Neal said, stumbling off the stool, letting her hold onto his arm as he walked. "That'd be good..."

Peter settled down next to him on one side, offering him the remote; Neal leaned against his arm, solid and warm, and passed the remote to Elizabeth, who gave them both a triumphant look and turned on a cooking show.

He was almost asleep when he felt Peter shift, careful of Neal's injury, and rest his arm along his shoulders; on his other side, Elizabeth nestled up against him, so that between the two of them he couldn't have moved even if he wanted to.

\---

Peter, with perhaps more wisdom than tact, wouldn't let Neal go back to work immediately. After a few days, Neal decided he was probably right; the spirit was willing, but the flesh still wanted to sleep eighteen hours a day. Instead, Peter went back to work and started bringing files home for him to work on in the evening -- mostly images of paintings from the treasure, things the FBI hadn't been able to put a provenance to.

The research felt clean, now, felt good and right. Neal went to the evidence lockup a few times to see the paintings in person, and pestered Peter into taking him in for half-days at the FBI. By the time he was out of the sling and the physical therapy was underway, he was cleared to go back into the field, though Hughes kept eyeballing him suspiciously.

His first night back at June's, after Peter had hovered and made excuses and finally left him there with the order to call if he had to, Mozzie showed up.

Neal was sitting on the terrace when he heard the door open, soft footsteps on the stone; Mozzie, making himself known.

"I'm sorry," he said, without turning around. He heard Mozzie clear his throat.

"Nice hair," he said.

"Thanks," Neal answered. "I had to, Moz. I couldn't do it anymore."

"Are you...you again?" Mozzie asked. Neal turned in his chair.

"Mostly," he said. Moz didn't look angry. He did look a little hurt.

"Mostly," Mozzie repeated. "How does that work?"

Neal gestured at the other chair. Mozzie sat in it a little primly, still watching him.

"I can't go back, Moz," Neal told him. "I'm done. I'm out."

Mozzie nodded.

"But I'm sorry I didn't tell you first. I'm sorry I screwed it up for you," Neal added.

"It was unfair," Mozzie said.

"I know."

"I don't mean tattling to the Suit."

Neal frowned.

"Look, if I'd known you didn't want to go, I would have just sold the stuff myself," Mozzie said. "I didn't ask you. I just threw you in the deep end. And I burned your paintings. So that was unfair. We screwed each other, okay?"

"Seems to be what we do," Neal murmured, aware that this was the closest Mozzie was likely to come to an apology. They sat silently for a while.

"Not even a little con?" Mozzie asked, holding up thumb and forefinger. "Small, harmless fun?"

"No," Neal said, smiling.

"You're sure?"

Neal tilted his head. "Well...maybe little ones."

"Aha!"

"But only for the FBI," Neal said quickly.

"Aw, Neal -- "

"I mean it. I burned out. And that...really, really sucked," Neal said.

Mozzie took off his glasses. "I have to say, Neal Of The Living Dead is not a good look on you."

"So...is that okay?" Neal asked. "Are you okay with it?"

"Well, it's not like you give me much of a choice, mon frere," Mozzie said. "Tropical islands remain a dream, I guess."

"I was never a huge fan of sand," Neal said. "You can get drinks with umbrellas in them in New York, you know."

Mozzie stood, putting his glasses back on and circling around to pat Neal's shoulder. "Seeya later, Suit _Noveau_."

"Seeya, Moz," Neal said, and Mozzie let himself out. Neal stretched and leaned back in the chair, tipping his face up to the evening sky. It was good to be alive and in New York and working as a consultant for the FBI, even if the road to this moment had been a little rough.

"Still standing," he said softly, and got up and went inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Grateful Dead's "Brokedown Palace".
> 
> Magritte's _Prêtre Marié_ is privately owned but can be seen at the [Christie's sale site](http://www.christies.com/LotFinder/lot_details.aspx?intObjectID=4856973) for the piece, which was auctioned for about $10 million in 2007.


End file.
